


I'm Sorry, You're Lovely

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [233]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Condoms, First Kiss, First Time, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Misunderstandings, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-01 06:48:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17862389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: The first time Q woke up in Bond’s bed, he was alone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Friends with benefits.
> 
> ...which is not at all where this story went.

The first time Q woke up in Bond’s bed, he was alone. Which only made the whole thing more confusing.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t remember what’d happened the previous evening; he’d been Christmas tipsy, after all, not New Year’s Eve drunk. There’d been a reception, a mandatory don’t-make-me-order-you thing that M had thrown for some of their Company colleagues who’d stopped in on their way to god knows where. If it’d been some of Q’s own kind, his American technical cousins, it might have been of interest; the ways those people thought about gear, about the role of the quartermaster, was in some ways surprisingly restrained. They had their 3D printed sidearms, of course, and their penchant for flash over function, but the women and men he’d met from Langley over the years were far less cartoonish than one might think. Yes, if the gathering had been for his kind of people, he wouldn’t have minded so much.

But those circulating the hall on the third floor of the River House had been agents, the whole lot of them, a half dozen of the CIA’s finest traveling at their new director’s side. That had been the point of the thing, really, for M and his counterpart to get to know each other a bit outside of the glare of the cameras, to get their forces to mingle and try to make nice. There was always a bit of suspicion between ours and theirs, Q had found, and no matter how many times they pulled each other out of the fire in the field, that desire for oneupsmanship never seemed to quite fade.

There were exceptions, of course. 009 got on well with a fellow brunette named Post, if their clasped hands and smudged lipstick were to be believed, and 007 had always leaned hard on Leiter, a smoky-eyed man with a laconic smile and a voice like a warm, whiskey river.

“So this is Q,” he’d said when Bond had introduced them. “The one and only, eh?”

“Luckily for us,” Bond said as they shook hands. “One is plenty, thanks.”

Leiter chuckled. “Don’t let him fool you,” he told Q. “He sings your praises all the damn time. Does a good job of making me jealous that I don’t have someone like you.”

Q had laughed, a sound made more hearty by two vodka tonics on top of stale crackers for lunch. “Someone to yell at, you mean, the moment anything awry? Oh, he’s very good at that. Puts in a lot of practice.”

“No,” Leiter had said, that smile again, a slow, sneaking curve that he’d turned to take Bond in as well. “Not exactly.”

Q hadn’t thought anything more about it, not really, until he’d been malingering at the back of the room, nursing one last drink, and Bond had popped up at his elbow, frowning.

“I do more than yell at you, don’t I?”

Q shrugged. “We’ve had a few civil conversations, yes. And sometimes all you do is pant in my ear.”

Bond crossed his arms and leaned closer, scowling. “Sometimes I’m _running_ , Q. You know, moving along at speed as to avoid getting shot.”

“Of course, of course.” It was easy to be magnanimous when the edges of Bond’s face were so pleasantly fuzzy. “It takes a lot out of you, this job. Especially someone who’s been at it for a while like you.”

“Someone who’s been--?” Bond made a strangled sound. “God, Q, has your opinion of me always been so low or have I done something special to earn your contempt tonight?”

“Pffft,” Q said, rattling his ice. “Nothing of the sort. I’m just here to have a good time.”

Bond's eyes skated over his glass. “I’ve never seen you drink before.”

“You’ve never seen me outside of the office before.”

“Just barely. Two minutes and a lift ride and you’d be back in your hovel.”

“My _hovel_?”

Bond’s mouth twitched. When had he got close enough for Q to see that? “Hmmm. Would you prefer ‘hobbit hole’?”

“I would prefer,” Q said, much too loudly, “that you fuck right off, straightaway. This is supposed to be a party, James.”

An irritated sound, a huff, and suddenly, his vision was full of Bond; Bond who’d stepped closer, Bond who was almost but not quite pressed against him. “No, it’s not,” Bond hissed. “It’s a reception, a goddamn professional obligation. And by god, Q, I love it when you call me James.”

Q had blinked and so had Bond and then his hand was on Bond’s arm, slipping easy over his suit jacket, grasping, doing the same with his words. “That,” Q said, “was the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I know,” Bond said. There were fingers in Q’s jumper, a hint of a fist. “Come home with me.”

They hadn’t spoken in the cab, hadn’t looked at each other, really, and it wasn’t until Bond keyed into his flat and reached back for Q’s hand that the whole business had felt real at all.

“What are we doing?” Bond had murmured, peeling Q’s coat from his shoulders, nuzzling the hot line of his neck. “Hmmm? Can you tell me that?”

Q had sighed, a long, slow sound that echoed off the walls like a groan. “I don’t know, I don’t know. I don’t care. James, I just need you to--”

He’d turned his face and clutched Bond’s hair and kissed him and that ended the discussion rather goddamn completely.

“Oh, fuck,” Bond said in his ear as Q stuttered white over Bond’s fist, his nails digging into Bond’s hips, his lips stretched wide with a cry. “Fuck yes, Q. God, look at you. That’s right.”

And then he’d snatched a condom from Bond’s hand and settled between the man’s thighs, shaking, taking all he could deep into his mouth, and Bond had whimpered, clamped his hand on Q’s head and held him there and held and Q had stroked Bond’s balls and rubbed at his center until Bond bellowed and filled Q’s mouth with the sweetest hint of heat, the tip of the condom filling, stretching.

“Ah, god, Q.” Bond’s nails fell to his face, fumbling, tracing. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, James.” Q said. He tugged the condom free and let Bond spill over his fingers. Lifted his head so Bond could see his big grin. “Not exactly.”  


*****

  
When he woke up, sometime after dawn, Bond wasn’t there. Never mind the fact that it took him a minute to recall where he was, another for the events of the night to register in his body as well as his head. He was sticky with sweat and he smelled of Bond’s come. He was in rather desperate need of a shower.

And where the hell had his host got to? Surely the man hadn’t fucked off from his own flat during the night.

Q got up, groggy, and fumbled about for a shirt. Where in the seven hells he had he put his glasses? Damn, he thought, irritation creeping up the back of his neck. God and fucking damn.

He stuck his head through the first button-down he found and picked his way gingerly over the rug, waiting for that awful, telltale crunch. They were here somewhere, he consoled himself. They had to be.

He hadn’t exactly had a tour the night before, but even half-blinded, he realized, the place was hardly a labyrinth. It was, in fact, rather basic: a bedroom, an ensuite, a living room. Some hall closets, another WC, and then, ah, he thought, here were are: the kitchen. Bond’s put the kettle on then, hasn’t he?

But the kitchen was empty, too. Quiet. The silence broken only by the hum of the fridge.

He sat down at the small table a little too hard, a little too fast. Well, he thought. So. Maybe Bond was the type who’d leave a note, the sort of chap who scribbled _I’m sorry you’re lovely_ as a code to every one on the night stand.

Something in him turned over, a slow somersault. A one-night stand. That’s what this had been, then. He swallowed, his mouth bitter with a trace of latex, of unexpected regret. Of course it had. It was a pickup, a bit of fun for the man between missions. After all, a man like Bond had to be occupied, entertained, didn’t he? He didn’t strike Q as a man who’d be content with crosswords, Radio 4, and some tea.

He flushed, the heat in his skin an echo of the night before, the fever in his face when he’d kissed Bond for the first time, right over there in the hall.

Of course it was a one-nighter, a bit of momentary fun. Bond wasn’t looking for something more than that, surely; and if he was, he’d never look to the office, would he? To the skinny, squinty man who barked at him over the comm. No, there were a hundred people, a thousand, in London alone that Bond might want to seek a steady thing with; the man had to have a Little Black Book a kilometer wide.

And anyway, Q wasn’t looking for more than that, was he? Hell, he hadn’t even set out looking for something as much as last night. It had just sort of happened, really. He scrubbed a hand over his face and caught a whiff of Bond’s cologne on the cuff, the rough, lovely smell of his body. God, he thought, it’d just sort of felt strange and beautiful and un-bloody-expected and perfect, somehow. He and goddamn James Bond.

Bond, who’d fucked off somewhere, leaving him high and dry. Bond, who hadn’t had the courtesy to wake him before he wandered off, ambled out into the world looking gorgeous without a second thought about the colleague he’d made see into the stars, a colleague he’d made feel so fucking good with his hands and his breath and his voice, a steady rumble pitched in the shape of Q’s name.

 _I love it when you call me James_ , he’d said, his eyes like paper lanterns.

Yes, well, Q thought, gathering his dignity about him, biting hard at his lip, I don’t suppose I’ll ever do that again.

He shoved the chair back and stood up and then the front door slammed. There was the rattle of keys in the corridor, a curse, and then Bond was standing in the doorway, a market sack caught in his fingers, his whole countenance one that even sans glasses shouted at Q:  _confused_.

“Q,” he said, scratchy. “What on earth are you doing up?”


	2. Chapter 2

“Er,” Q said, “it’s morning. That’s what one usually does, isn’t it? Get up.”

“Did I wake you?” Bond set the bag on the table, smiled. “I did try my best to be quiet. You were out rather hard.”

Q felt a bit wobbly, like a startled giraffe. His face was hot. He wasn’t sure how he should feel. Bond was acting as if the whole business was normal, routine post-coital relations; was it?

He scrambled for words, for some semblance of their usual banter. “I’d take that as a compliment if I were you. A testament to your efforts and all that.”

Bond’s smile widened. He slipped around the corner and drew Q out from his odd post between the table and the chair. “Mmmm,” he said, a low rumble. “Believe me. I do.”

He kissed Q then, a slow sloop of his lips, his tongue somehow both wicked and lazy, and Q found his arms lifting of their own accord, rising, winding their way around the man’s neck, the wool of Bond’s coat still damp with the fog and the cold. That anvil in his gut that the empty side of Bond’s bed had put there began to melt through his fingers, ice sweating down the edges of a glass, a trail of heat that spread from Bond’s cold, broad hands down the curve of his back.

“I thought you’d gone,” he said when Bond let him breathe again.

“I had. There’s not a damn thing in the larder.” Bond nuzzled his throat. “I wasn’t about to feed you old biscuits for breakfast. Eggs and toast, I thought, at least.”

“You went--?” Q snorted, dug his fingers into the back of Bond’s neck. “You went shopping?”

“That’s generally how one acquires food, yes.”

“Ah.”

Bond raised his head, his eyes like snow clouds. “Wait. Where did you think I’d gone?”

“Out, I suppose.” He toyed with Bond’s collar, scratched his nails across wet wool, feeling vaguely foolish. “Or on to work, perhaps. I didn’t know.”

Bond blinked. “You thought I’d gone and fucked off?”

“Well, yes, but--”

“You thought I’d _left_? Left you here alone without saying anything, without--!” Bond looked gobsmacked. “After last night, Q. Really?! Why in god’s name would I do that?”

“Um. Because you had more important things to do?”

Bond’s grip grew tighter, his expression more thunderous. “Oh, Christ. Do you really think so little of me?”

“That’s the second time you’ve asked me that in the past twelve hours.” Q closed his eyes for a moment. “And the answer’s still no.”

He felt Bond take a long breath. “Then why,” Bond said, softer now, “why would you think that I’d walk out on you?”

Q bit his lip. “I don’t know. We didn’t really talk about, er--last night, I mean, we didn’t exactly set out any terms, did we?”

“No. I suppose not.” Bond stroked a hand through Q’s hair, the rat’s nest of it, tangled and curled. His thumb found the curve of Q’s ear. “That might’ve been wise to do, eh?”

“Yes.”

Their mouths met, gently parted.

Bond said: “Shall we talk about that now?”

“If you want to.”

“I do, but I’m afraid it’s impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Bond said, his voice like hot syrup, “I can’t help but notice that you’re wearing my shirt and only my shirt and I find that very, very distracting.”

Q felt a twitch between his legs, one barely shielded by his shirttails; Bond’s hum said he’d felt it, too. “Would it help if I took it off?”

“Mmmm, maybe. But I like seeing you in it.” Bond bent his head and nosed under Q’s collar. “Do you like wearing it?”

Q didn’t have to think. “Yes. It smells like you.”

“Ah, god,” Bond groaned against Q’s neck, his hands opening, tumbling, shoving their way beneath the long white edges to cup the curves of Q’s ass. “God, yes. You smell so fucking good."

“No, I don’t!” Q laughed, squirming. “I need a shower.”

Bond growled. Q could feel the shape of his grin. “Not if I’m determined to get you dirty again, you don’t.”

He came with Bond a solid wall at his back, Bond’s hips moving eagerly against his ass, Bond’s hand steady and slow on his cock, his fist bobbing beneath Q’s shirt.

“Keep your hands on the counter,” Bond rasped. His breath was hot, the words wet. “Just like that. Don’t move them.”

Q’s fingers clawed at the marble. “But I want to touch you.” He closed his eyes; god, all he had was the man’s hand, the heavy heat of his body, and he was already willing to beg. “James, let me. Please.”

“I will, I promise.” Bond sounded even more battered. He smoothed the precum from the tip of Q’s cock, stroked the flushed skin of the head. “But you have to come for me first, darling. Can you do that? Will you do that for me?”

“Oh,” Q said, rather too loudly, his palms sliding, the sweat on his cheeks curling over his chin. “Oh, fuck. Fuck me. _Fuck_.”

He closed his eyes and the world fell apart, a kaleidoscope shattered, and then Bond was spinning him round, rubbing their mouths together, fumbling anxiously at his own fly. Q felt filthy and gorgeous and greedy, so goddamn greedy that even as he sputtered, felt the last hot tics from his dick, he slapped Bond’s hand away and peeled down the man’s zipper himself.

“Oh,” he said, the words coming out drunk. “I see you liked that, huh?”

Then Q was pitched against the counter again, this time his back to it, and Bond was looming over him, squeezing at his hips, fucking wild into Q’s fist and the air stank of sex, of their sweat, and Bond was moaning, hot little sounds that made Q disinclined to ever let go of him, ever to let him get more than an arm’s length away.

“Fuck, Q. Faster. Put it faster and squeeze me harder, darling, oh god, oh Christ.” Bond’s head fell back, the soft hot curve of his neck exposed. His fingers crept up to claw at Q’s back. “Shit, that’s right. Yes, _yes_ , sweetheart. Oh, shit, just like that.”

“James,” Q said, soft. His heart was in his ears; the world felt soft and swimmy. “Oh, James. Come on, do it. Do it. Make a mess out of me.”

A sound fell from Bond’s mouth, rock candy, breathless, and then it was a race, a frenzy, Bond’s mouth open needy over his until Bond shuddered, an earthquake over his body, and then there was white everywhere, everywhere; on Q’s hand, on his shirt, acres and acres of heat.

“Now,” Bond said after a long while.

Q stirred against Bond’s chest. His legs felt like spaghetti. “Hmmm?” he mumbled. “Now what?”

Bond kissed the top of Q’s head. He could feel the man grin. “Now you need a shower for sure.”


	3. Chapter 3

It wasn’t until they were both under the spray, thought, Bond’s hands moving in sleepy, sweet-smelling circles over the planes of Q’s back, that it struck Q that however pleasant the last hour had been, the particular problem of this morning had yet to be solved.

“Bond?” he said.

“Hmmm?”

“Was this a one-night stand?”

The circles slowed. Q felt Bond’s chin perch warm on his shoulder. “Huh,” Bond said. “I hadn’t thought of it in those terms. Had you?”

The water was beating pleasantly on Q’s chest, a tattoo that matched the one in his heart. “I wasn't sure.”

“Would you like it to be?”

He closed his eyes. It made it easier to say it, somehow. “No. Not especially.”

“Well.” Bond sighed, his soapy grip sliding down to Q’s hip. "Isn’t that lovely? Neither would I.”

Q turned his head, water everywhere, falling, and Bond was there to meet him, smiling, his mouth gentle and open and wet.

“Do you know,” Bond said later, when their skin was dry and pressed together beneath soft, wrinkled sheets, “how long I’ve wanted something like this to happen?”

“Something like this, or this? Do be specific, Bond.”

Bond pinched him, laughed when Q wiggled in his arms, indignant. “Either. Both.”

“No.” Q sat up a bit, just enough so he could see into those bright, fathomless eyes. “I’d no idea. I thought”--he touched the gray hair on Bond’s chest, tugged at it lightly--“frankly, I thought you couldn’t stand me.”

Bond’s hand came up, his palm hot against Q’s cheek. “Did you now.”

“Well, perhaps that’s a tad hyperbolic. I thought I annoyed you. How’s that?”

Bond chuckled. “Oh, you do. You very much do.”

“Hence the bellowing at me over the comm, eh?”

“Indeed.” Bond drew his thumb over Q’s lips. “Believe it or not, though, that’s how I knew that I liked you.”

Q bit at him gently. “Hmmm. You’ve lost me.”

“Do you know how many people I’ve bellowed at in my time, Q?”

“In an official capacity? Oh, I couldn’t begin to guess. A cantankerous old man like you. A dozen? Maybe two?”

“And do you know how many of those two dozen or so have ever had the balls to shout back?”

He considered that for a moment. “Huh. Five or six?”

“Try two.”

Q blinked. “Who?”

Bond’s mouth lifted. “There was M.” They both knew who he meant; it wasn’t Mallory. “And there’s you. That goes a long way, you know; people who are willing to call me on my bullshit. I need to happen quite a bit more, I think.” He chuckled, drew his fingers into Q’s hair. “That’s what I was always rabbiting on to Felix about, you know; how willing you were to call me on the carpet when I fucked something up.”

“Do you want to go to bed with everyone who takes you to task?”

A snort. “Ah, no.”

“Then,” Q said, because it was the obvious question, “why me?”

“Because,” Bond said, his voice feather soft, “I found that when you weren’t in my ear, sweetheart, I wished that you were. Because you don’t fuss at me all the time, do you? You’re also clever and funny and so goddamn smart that I wonder if you really understand it, how lovely a creature you are.”

Q flushed, a cherry red that spread down his chest and raked its nails past his heart. “James, really, you don’t have to--”

Then there were two hands on him, pulling, those great blunt fingers tugging him up and over until it was he who caged James in, his knees on either side of Bond’s hips, his fists gripping Bond’s pillow. “Ah, ah,” Bond rumbled, “no playing coy now. You asked.”

“So I did.”

Bond stroked his sides, counted the tips of his ribs. “You’re lovely, Q. Even in those damnable jumpers and ill-fitting corduroys. Even when you’re talking to me as if I’m an idiot, as if I haven’t been at this longer than you’ve been alive.”

Q shivered, ticklish. And other things. “Well, that’s not quite true,” he stammered, “I’m--”

“Oh, do shut up. I’m trying to tell you how much I adore you, aren’t I, and you’re still determined to have the last word.”

“No, I’m not.”

Bond laughed and grabbed Q’s ass and held him tightly, gripped him, each of them pinning the other. There was, Q thought vaguely, the thought a rush of hot wind, nowhere to go for either of them. 

“Your turn,” Bond said.

“My turn what?”

A grin. A pleasant bite of Bond’s nails. “Why, for you to tell me why you want me.”

Q was filling now, more than halfway to stiff, and he knew Bond could feel it, could see it in the self-satisfied smirk in the man’s eyes. “At the moment, you mean,” he managed, “or more generally speaking?”

Bond kissed his chin. Squeezed his ass again. “Mmm, I’ll take both, if you’re offering.”

“I’ve always liked you,” Q said, “against my better judgement. Believe me, there were days when I wished I didn’t. Would’ve saved me a lot of talking tos, you know.”

“From who?”

“Who do you think?” Q grumbled against Bond’s cheek. “He who signs my pay cheque. And yours.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well,” Q said, “I’ve made rather a habit of covering your ass. When I could, that is. When I felt justified in doing so. When you hadn’t pissed me off to kingdom come that particular week. Gone to battle for you behind closed doors, and all that, when by rights I should’ve let Mallory come for your hide.”

Bond made a puzzled sound. Q kissed it away.

“James,” he said above the man’s mouth, “you make them nervous, the powers that be. Surely you know that. Other 00s might push the boundaries, but you've made a habit of obliterating them. Or simply pretending they're not there at all.”

“That’s all in my reports. I tell them everything I’ve done, Q.”

“Do you?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t lie.”

“I know,” Q said. “But there are times when perhaps you shouldn’t be so stark with the truth.”

Bond was quiet for a moment, still. A snake coiled in the grass.

“Am I to understand,” he said finally, “that you’ve taken it upon yourself to alter my after-action reports?”

Q swallowed. “Er, not all of them.”

“How many, then?”

“Three or four over the years. And not wholecloth, mind. I’ve just--tailored a sentence or two here and there. These aren’t like the old days, James. What I fixed wouldn’t have made her flinch, but this lot, they’d have tossed you out on your ear.”

“You had no right to do that.”

“I know. And I’ve asked myself over and over why I’d done it. Couldn’t for the life of me figure out why. Until this morning.”

Bond’s palms drew up Q’s back. “Why? What happened this morning?”

“I woke up and you weren’t here. I didn’t care for that much.” Q rubbed their cheeks together, felt the catch of Bond’s scruff. “Because, apparently, I care about you.”

“My god, you’re an idiot,” Bond said, the words sucked free of their sting by the clutch of his arms, a fierce, sudden hug. “Risking your job for me. You know that’s what you were doing, don’t you? If they’d caught you, they’d--!”

“Revoke my clearances, sacked me, etc. Yes, I know, thank you. I know.”

“And I’m old enough to take my own licks.”

“Of course you are,” Q said. “Old, that is. You’ve got that in spades.”

Bond kissed him, messy now, his breath caught up in a hitch. “God, I’m glad I dragged you home,” he said. “I’m glad Felix saw fit to yank my chain.”

“Why?” Q nipped at his tongue. “Would you have not said anything on your own?”

“Would you have?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Given enough time and enough wine. As I said, I didn’t really know what I felt until all of this happened.”

“Which it should definitely do again, yes?” Bond caught a hold of him, rolled him, pounced upon him like a great, graying tiger. “We’ve agreed on that, right?”

Q arched his back, mirrored Bond’s wide, sunny grin. “God yes.”

“Hang on." Bond tilted his head, his eyebrows lifting. "I haven’t made you breakfast, have I? You must be starving."

“No.” Q wrapped his arms around Bond’s neck. “I don’t care. I’m not hungry.”

“Mmmm,” Bond said. He ducked his head and kissed the hollow base of Q’s throat. “But I’ve left the eggs out. The butter, too. I’m not being a very good host, am I?”

A moan formed in his chest as Bond’s mouth peeled down, found his nipple. “You’re doing fine.”

“Am I?” Bond closed his teeth. “I don’t know. I’ve taken a lot out of you already. The way you came all over yourself and all over my counter. You’re probably lightheaded, aren’t you?”

“James--”

Bond shook his head. “No,” he said, resigned. “It wouldn’t be fair of me to take you in my mouth now, would it? To suck at your pretty little head. Even through a condom, it’d be too much. You might pass out. You might faint.”

Q’s head fell back even as his hands went talon, even as he scrabbled at Bond’s shoulders and spit out a growl: “Goddamn it. Goddamn you! Bond, you so much as think about getting out of this bed and I’ll--!”

“You’ll what?” Bond’s fingers slipped between Q’s thighs, teased at the swell of his balls. “Hmmm? Oh, please, do finish that threat.”

“Ugh,” Q said, as eloquent as he could manage as the blood in his head raced towards Bond’s touch.

Bond laughed, leaned the sound against Q’s stomach. He turned his eyes up and they burned, clear and bright, full of things, Q realized, that the man himself wasn’t quite ready to say. But he would; Q was sure of that. Oh yes, he would. And so would Q, too. In time.

He touched Bond’s face, drew his knuckles ragged down one rough cheek.

“Oh yes,” Bond murmured, summer thunder despite the tap of winter outside. “That’s what I think, too, sweetheart. Breakfast be damned.”


End file.
